Bedtime Stories
by quitesirius
Summary: Hermione has a cold, and Ron comes by for a visit. Takes place a few months after DH. Fluffy.
1. Chapter 1: The Right Book

Bedtime Stories

A/N: Whoa. I be coming out of retirement, fools. HP madness has caught up with me once again, and while I usually prefer to focus on the lovely twins, I also am wild about Ron and Hermione. I've missed them.

This one is for my dad, who was so dedicated to my love of books and stories that he read or told me a story every single night until I was nine and found him too slow of a reader to be bothered to keep asking (sorry, dad). He is still the best story teller I know.

Reviews put ink in my pen.

Disclaimer: If I owned Harry Potter or The Princess Bride, would I really be here? Um. No.

* * *

_Sniffle_.

Hermione groaned in an annoyed fashion as she reached for yet another tissue. She hated the defeat of sickness, hated admitting that she had fallen victim to the common cold, and hated that rather than being out in the beautiful autumn air with her friends, she was wrapped up in ridiculous amounts of Weasley knitting and struggling to find a potion that would help her get over the illness quicker. Pepper-up potion had only been good enough to get her out of bed and to stop shivering, but she still felt chilly.

She refused to believe that she could help bring down the darkest wizard in known magical history and not be able to fend off a cold- even with magic. She must have been particularly lucky this go-round and found some sort of potion-resistant virus.

She cast a glance toward the window of her flat in Hogsmeade, watching the leaves fall quietly in a torrent of oranges, yellows, and reds. She loved autumn. Change was so beautiful. She leaned over and opened the window beside her couch the tiniest bit so that she could reach out and snatch a leaf from outside. She brought it back in, closed the window, and admired the red and orange leaf as she contemplated her life now.

She had opted to stay in her own flat rather than return to the dormitories of Hogwarts while she completed her education. While rooming with Ginny had been appealing, she felt out of place in the common room now without Ron and Harry there beside her. She also avoided the Great Hall at all costs, remembering all too well the events that had transpired there not even a year before. The ghastly visions of Lupin, Tonks, and Fred lying in the Hall would not leave her. She wondered how Ginny could sit and eat in the room where her brother's body had laid.

She shook her head, loosing herself from dismal memories. It was fall, and things were changing again. Teddy was growing and exploring his finer motor functions. George had returned from his much-needed meandering journey through places unknown, with just the hint of a smile on his lips and plans to re-open the shop. Harry had been quite busy gutting out Grimmauld Place in hopes of making it more-than-slightly livable, though he often mentioned the idea of moving elsewhere. Luna had sent Ginny a letter from somewhere in South America, where she off hunting some sort of creature unknown, and it was quite lovely doing it without shoes, Luna had wrote. Neville had gone off to study Herbology as Professor Sprout's apprentice, and he no longer even had a hint of low self esteem anymore, though every now and then he did look like he was remembering something unfortunate. It seemed that while the pain would never fully fade, the swirl of colored leaves outside of Hermione's window offered the hope that maybe someday things would be a bit different… in a better way.

This dratted cold aside, things were definitely looking good for Hermione. She was completing her seventh year at Hogwarts, her friends were healing, and life was continuing to move on. She had already been offered jobs at the Ministry, but had turned them down in favor of pursuing her education. And most importantly, there was Ron Weasley… her boyfriend.

"_Achoo!_"

Hermione grumbled and rose from her place on the couch, weaving her way into the kitchen. She tapped her teapot with her wand and snatched up a mug to use for the tea she was making.

She felt incredibly comfortable bundled in Mrs. Weasley's finest works. A hat similar to the one she had made for Ron, with fluffy pom-poms that hung down on either side of her ears, was doing well at containing her untamed hair. She wore sweatpants and a chunky, crazily striped sweater Mrs. Weasley had made using all of her scrap yarn. Her Gryffindor scarf was coiled around her neck several times and her hands were encased in a pair of glorious mittens. Ron's Chudley Cannons blanket was draped over her shoulders—he had left it at her flat after the two had settled in to watch muggle films the Friday night prior.

She had been pleasantly surprised to find that Ron rather liked her choices and had marveled over the discovery of popcorn for hours.

She decided that looking through her potions books had gotten the best of her, and all there was to do now was simply rest. She returned to the couch with her steaming mug in hand and settled into the cushions with a sigh. Yes, things had been bad for a while, but life was starting to look up. If nothing else, she was wrapped in a blanket that smelled like Ron Weasley.

Just as Hermione was nodding off, a gentle knock on the door woke her. She huffed slightly and stumbled to the door, pulling the blanket tighter around herself and wiping at her nose with a tissue she snatched off the coffee table. She whipped open the door and her tension melted instantly.

Ron stood in the doorway, bundled against the chill nearly as much as she was, holding an orchid and looking a bit worried.

"Not feeling any better?"

Her heart melted at his concern and she smiled. "A little, but not much. Come in." She stepped aside to let him in.

He held out the orchid to her, blushing slightly. "Thought you'd want something to brighten the place up," he commented as casually as he could manage. "It, um, it won't ever wilt, so you don't need to water it or anything… I wasn't sure what kind of flowers you liked. I know most girls like roses, but you're not most girls, are you? Anyway, if you don't like it-"

"It's lovely, Ron. Thank you."

He swooped forward and kissed her on the cheek, the tips of his ears reddening. "Of course. Sorry. Get a bit carried away sometimes."

The relationship the two had built after the fall of Voldemort was one she was quite happy with. The rather incredible kiss they had sprung upon each other prior to the final battle had erased any inhibitions she and Ron had had about revealing their true feelings to each other, but they had maintained that they did not want to jump into anything too rashly. After all, they had been tip-toeing around this for years, and to run into it blindly, possibly mucking up everything, well… it didn't sound appealing.

The kisses were frequent and occasionally unbridled, which they enjoyed, but Hermione equally thrived on moments like these—moments stolen from her younger self by impending doom and Ron's immaturity. She had not gotten to be a sixteen-year-old girl who received flowers from a certain boy, and now seemed as good a time as any for Ron to show up with an orchid.

This innocent part of their blossoming relationship was just as wonderful as anything else.

"You ought to sit down. You don't look like you're feeling too well," Ron said in a concerned tone, taking hold of one of her mittened hands with one of his own, leading her toward the couch.

She sat down and he plopped down next to her, planting another kiss on her cheek. "I'd go in for the kill," he said with a small smile, "But I don't fancy your bogeys."

She blushed and wiped at her nose self-conciously. She stifled a giggle when he pulled his hat off, revealing a mass of messy red hair. It pointed in every direction, tangled, and putting Harry's to shame.

"What?" he asked with a chuckle.

"Your hair," she said, reaching out to touch it. She ran her fingers through it, doing nothing to smooth it. "Very fetching."

He raised a brow at her and smiled. "Ah. Now, tell me Hermione, can I get you anything? I hate to think of you cooped up in here all day without any soup or—"

"I'm capable of feeding myself," she jibed. "But thank you."

He rolled his eyes at her and leaned back into the cushions. "So I'll just make myself comfortable then. Oo," he said, sitting up again with a sudden interest, "can we finish watching 'The Big Sleep'? I was so involved."

She giggled at him and found herself yawning. "Oh, Ron, I'd love to but I'm feeling a bit put out. Maybe if I just take a little nap first? But, oh, what will you do? I hate that you've come to see me and I'm talking about napping."

He rolled his eyes at her again. "Hermione. You've napped in front of me dozens of times. The only difference is that now you can use me for your pillow. But first," he said, rising quite quickly and unexpectedly darting to her bookshelf, "which one?"

She raised a brow at him. "Which one what?"

"Which book am I going to read to you while you doze off?"

Her heart had never fluttered so much. The thought of Ron reading to her, his voice lulling her to sleep… "Oh, I don't know!"

He turned to the shelf and grabbed the first title. "The Tales of Beedle the Bard. No. I don't think so. Best to avoid that for some time." He pushed the book back on the shelf and cocked his head, scanning titles as he went. "How about…?"

"Ron, I've just had an idea. You said you'd never heard any muggle fairy tales—why don't you read me some of those? It'll put me out and might interest you."

He shrugged. "Alright, which book is that?"

"I have a few. I got interested in fairy tales after… well. Anyway, there's The Brothers Grimm and Irish Fairy and Folk Tales there. Pick one."

"Brothers Grimm? Let's forget that for now. No Grimms or stories about brothers. I've had enough of that." He pulled a book free and returned to sit beside Hermione, who snuggled up against his chest. They both openly smiled. "Any particular favorites?"

"No. Pick one."

He flipped absent-mindedly through the book and stopped at a title that piqued his interest—"The Demon Cat". He cast his eyes around the room, warily searching for Crookshanks. The orange ball of hair curled up and purring in the windowsill on the far end of the room caused Ron to keep flipping pages.

"Dunno, Hermione, these all sound rather terrifying. Hoards of demons and funny little men with odd names-"

"You could pick out a novel if you'd like," she mumbled into her blanket, which she had pulled up against her face. If he didn't pick soon, she'd likely nod off without hearing his steady breathing as he read to her.

She was swept away into memories of her childhood, when it had been her father or grandfather sitting beside her bed, reading to her as she struggled to find sleep. She had found so much comfort and joy as they read to her, giving each character a different voice. The ebbs and flows of their words, unique pronunciations… the characters had come to life, and the world of her bedroom often shifted into that of whatever book she was being indulged. It had been quite awful, being sick when her dad or grandpa were off at work, and that was when her mother had left her a video of her favorite childhood book. She knew it word for word, and even if she fell into slumber, she would just dream the story anyway-

"Oh!" Hermione exclaimed, sitting up so suddenly she near head-butted Ron. "Ron, I've got it! I know the perfect book!" She struggled to get up, wrestling against the Chudley Cannons blanket and untangling from Ron's limbs.

"Wha-?" Ron watched as Hermione shuffled over to her bedroom door, pushed it open with her elbow, and went in.

Of course there were more books in her room, he thought. How could she just have one shelf? That was ludicrous.

She returned with a green volume, fairly thin for a novel, and a bit worn. It had obviously been read many times, and when Hermione handed the book to Ron, it was with a certain care she had not even given to library books at Hogwarts. Ron looked down at the book in his hands, ran his fingers over the fabric cover and across the gold lettering of the title.

"The Princess Bride?"

"Yes! It's a fairy tale, but it's novel-length! Compromise," she added with a smile.

"A book-length fairy tale? Hermione…" Ron lifted a skeptical brow, but as soon as he saw her overjoyed expression begin to wither, he checked himself. "What's it about?"

"That's the best part," she said giddily, "you'll love it! It's about a princess, a pirate, a giant, a Sicilian, a Spaniard, and miracles. It's quite lovely, Ron. Adventure, romance, sword-fights… go on and try it out. If you don't like it you can put it away after I've dozed off. I'll be none the wiser. Compromise," she repeated.

It was a loaded word with her nowadays. Compromise was something she and Ron had been very bad at for a very long time, and now that they were actually having a proper go at dating, she was bound and determined not to lose herself in petty arguments. She did enjoy riling up Ron, but she knew that sometimes the best way to deal with him was to ask him to try something, and if he didn't like it, he could stop. Such compromises had led to trying a picnic in Hyde Park (which had been fine until Ron was nearly run down by a bunch of boys on skateboards), Hermione trying to learn one of Mrs. Weasley's recipes (which had gone well until that last pinch of salt filled the kitchen with smoke), and so on.

"Compromise," he repeated softly. "Hermione… you don't have to keep saying that. I know you and you know me. You aren't about to scare me off now, no matter how loony you get." He reached over and ran a thumb over her cheek tentatively. "Thinking I'd loose you once was more than enough." He swallowed and averted his gaze toward the book. "Alright, The Princess Bride, by William Goldman. Chapter One: The Bride."


	2. Chapter 2: The Tone

A/N: Wow, I was surprised at how many people wanted another chapter! Alright, I suppose I could carry this one further ;) I'd like to say a special thank you to TheDerangedMango, for her review as well as her message. I fully intend to sit down and read some of your work when I get a moment! Review this chapter with ideas of what you'd like to see- I intended this to be a oneshot, but your wish is my command, dear readers. This is short because I wasn't quite sure what to do... so tell me. :)

Anyway, on to Ron and Hermione (and Buttercup and Westley) goodness! Again, I do not own anything from either the Harry Potter world of the Princess Bride world (the quotes from the book are from page 69 of the William Goldman paperback).

**Chapter Two: The Tone**

Ron's voice was strangely soothing, Hermione thought as she closed her eyes and listened to him read. They had fought so many times that she'd lost count part way through second year, and she had always found it silly that even while they were fighting, she'd liked his voice. In the throes of anger, while he bellowed and accused with no good grounds for either, he sounded… well, not soothing, but… familiar. She had occasionally imagined that Harry's voice would have had the same effect, but she knew now that that was simply not the case. It was Ron's voice, and his alone, that had this effect.

He was a good reader, she thought. Mrs. Weasley had taught him well. He paused in all the right places and, after he got to know each character a bit better, gave them each a different tone. He had stumbled a bit through the bits about Buttercup and Westley, the farm boy, as the author explained how in love the two were. She smiled warmly, her eyes closed, as she listened to Ron work his way over the words, her ear to his chest, taking in the rhythms of his breath and voice.

How she had gotten so lucky, she was not sure. First, she had become a witch, then she'd gone off to school, made two incredible friends, been adopted into a beautiful family, and now after years of turmoil, grief, and adolescent hormones gone awry, she had her face buried in the sweater of Ron Weasley. Her life was finally starting to come together and she was incredibly grateful toward the man sitting on her couch.

She shifted slightly and opened her eyes. He took little notice, as he seemed to be getting into the story now. His eyes flitted over the words quickly and his wild ginger hair shone a rosy gold in the autumn light. He was beautiful, she thought, and for a moment he seemed like a dream. She reached up to touch his cheek gently, to run her fingers over each freckle and curve of his jaw.

"Whatcha doin'?" he asked with a small smile, looking down at her. Even his eyelashes looked golden in this light.

"Just making sure you're real," she said, then blushed.

"Ah," he replied gently. After a heartbeat, he bent and pressed his lips to her forehead. "Just making sure you're real," he said. "How are you doing? Do you need anything?"

She cast a glance toward the coffee table. A box of tissues and a mug of steaming peppermint tea were waiting. She sat up and took a sip of tea as Ron pressed the back of his hand to her forehead. She seemed to pass his test, and he brushed a few damp curls away from her eyes. She shook her head at him. "Just more reading, please."

"Alright," he said, extending his arm around her and pulling her close. She put her head in the crook of his shoulder and breathed in as deeply as she could past her stuffy nose. "Let's see… where was I?"

"The evil stepmother," Hermione replied, sniffling and smiling all at once.

"Right! Okay… let's see… Queen Bella was shaped like a gumdrop. And colored like a raspberry. She was easily the most beloved person in the kingdom, and had been married to the King long before he began mumbling."

Before Hermione realized what was going on, she was dreaming of a small farm that looked quite a bit like the Burrow. It seemed much like what she imagined the world to be some two hundred years ago, and she found herself wearing a simple dress with an apron over the front, leading a horse to the stable (newly acquired by the Weasleys, she surmised). Soon Ron came stumbling out of the broom shed, his hair in disarray and his clothes a bit the worse for wear.

She smiled at him and he stopped dead, the bucket of water he was carrying sloshing all over.

"Be careful," she advised.

"As you wish," Ron replied, tipping his head at her in the most formal gesture he may have ever made.

All too soon, someone was nudging her awake. She breathed in and rolled her head up to look at Ron. "What? I was dreaming," she said, a bit put off.

"Sorry," he muttered, his cheeks turning a soft pink. "I just thought you ought to drink some more tea before it gets cool. You sound like you're having a hard time breathing. And, um, my arm is falling asleep." He shook his arm gently and she moved apologetically. "Thank you."

"Sorry about that."

"It's fine. So, um, if you want to take a nap… should I um… should I go?" He seemed rather nervous about this question and Hermione hurried to ease him.

"You don't have to, Ron, but if you'd like—"

"Oh, I'm not saying—"

"You can stay. I don't know how much fun I'll be, though. Is your voice getting tired? You've read the first three chapters!" She was quite amazed that Ron could read so quickly—he surely hadn't read that fast when it came to Astronomy homework.

He nodded a bit. "I'll keep reading, if you'd like, but I would like some tea or something."

She got up off the couch and saw to it that Ron had his cup of tea. "I'll take a turn reading, then," she said, snatching up the book and thumbing to the page where Ron had left off.

"You're sick, Hermione!"

"And? Still capable of reading. I'll just do a chapter or so. I'd like to read—always makes me feel better," she said firmly, pulling the book out of his reach when he made a grab for it.

He could see the battle was lost. "Oh, alright. Just one chapter, though. As soon as I'm done with my tea it's my turn again." He raised the cup to his lips and then paused. "Wait. I suppose I ought to do this right." With a devilish grin, he set his tea down and began covering himself in blankets, laid down (as best such a tall man could on such a small piece of furniture), and put his head on Hermione's arm. He reached forward and grabbed his tea, taking a sip as Hermione looked at him with a raised brow. "What? I'll be a good audience, and you were quite comfy yourself—"

"Fine, fine," Hermione said. "Alright. Chapter Four…"


	3. Chapter 3: Soup and Sicilians

A/N: Hmm… I'd asked for ideas, but received none Wish me luck, then. I've come up with something, and intend to keep working on this story while I figure out exactly how I want to tie up "The Other Side of Goodbye". All the Ron/Hermione AWESOMENESS in the DH movie has my wheels spinning. SPOILER: I will be including Hermione's little "memento" from Bellatrix in this story, as well as mentions of the lost Weasley, but will not be heading down Angst Avenue. This chapter got away from me a little, but I like it :)

**Chapter Three: Soup and Sicilians**

Ron nestled against Hermione, his ginger hair splaying against her arm haphazardly. As Hermione began to read, he closed his eyes, and she stopped. His eyes opened immediately and he lifted a brow at her.

"Wasn't sleeping, I promise," he muttered quickly, trying to reassure her and correct his error.

"I know," she replied quietly. "I was just thinking that a quick little break for soup would be wonderful." She snapped the book closed and set it beside her. She looked down at Ron and lifted a brow. "You're not moving," she stated with a small smile.

"I'm rather comfortable," he said in something that was nearly a sigh. His smile matched hers. "I'm also rather glad I stopped mucking about and sorted out my priorities."

She chuckled at the memory of the first time he'd said those words. "As glad as I am as well, I am hungry and think I deserve a bowl of chicken noodle before I read."

Ron sat up and shifted so that his legs were over the edge of the couch. "Of course," he said, swooping in to peck her on the cheek. "Chicken noodle it is."

Hermione stifled a chuckle as she heard Ron clanging around in her kitchen. He had never mastered the art of muggle cooking, nor had his mother been able to teach him much about magical cooking. However, since Ron had emerged from such an insanely long and dangerous camping trip as well as the Battle of Hogwarts, he had been quite keen to learn. She had been pleasantly surprised by how quickly he had picked up on baking, even if he did tend to eat most of the dough before putting it in the oven. Baking, it had turned out, was the perfect way to spend weekend afternoons (after she had finished her homework, of course), and Ron had returned from a morning shift at Fr—well, George's shop.

A tuft of red hair was briefly visible as Ron bent to light the stovetop with his wand. Hermione suddenly remembered a quiet afternoon at the Burrow one summer, so long ago now, when the summer sky had began to drizzle, and how the twins had decided that while their parents were away on errands, it was time to play in the kitchen. The resulting concoctions were not trusted by the others present, but neither twin sprouted feathers, and swore up and down that everyone else was missing out on a culinary treat.

She felt her lip curl up in a smile as she remembered such days. There had been a time, perhaps not as long ago as it seemed, when everyone had been whole and happy, if not a bit worried. Though the danger of what was to come loomed ominously on the horizon, there was still time for pleasant breakfasts and games of Exploding Snap. The Burrow had been full of tumult and chaos, but even the twins knew when to take it down a notch and just… be.

The scent of broth entered the air and Hermione felt her eyes well a bit. There was Ron, so wonderful and different, but somehow the same. The two had not spoken about the events of the war, at least not as deeply as she felt they should have, but it seemed they didn't need to. Though Ron had shed his tears, and occasionally got a solemn look on his face while they were alone and quiet, she wondered if he ever had moments like this. Did he ever remember the brother that he lost in such trivial moments?

"Oy," he said, poking his head around the corner, "have you—Hermione?" He pushed his brows together in concern. "Are you alright? What's wrong?"

She shook her head slightly. A small smile, a tiny tear. Ron really had grown observant and past his teaspoon stage. "I'm fine. I was just… do you remember that morning when Fred and George made breakfast?"

His face relaxed a small bit and he cast his eyes to the floor, his mouth also forming a small smile. "Yeah. George was actually not too bad in the kitchen on his own, but once Fred got around, I always checked my food for any foreign substances." He looked back up at her. "Is that what you're thinking about? Fred?" His voice was gentle and somewhat sad. "Why?" He did not mean it rudely, nor was he accusing.

"I just remembered his hair when he nearly lit it on fire," she said, her tear escaping alongside a small laugh.

"He did always say 'fire makes it better'."Ron chuckled slightly. "Bloody well miss that madman."

Hermione rose from her seat and went over to him. "D'you want to talk about it?"

He sighed and shook his head. "Not at the moment. I miss him, yeah, and I worry about George. But if there was one thing I learned from Fred," he paused to look her right in the eyes, "was that you've got to live. He was a right crazy bloke, but he sure as hell lived as much as he could. And right now, I'd like nothing more than to be here, living in this moment with you, even if you are pale as Nearly Headless Nick and sweaty like you've just run a marathon." He smiled at her, lifting his brows.

She put her arms around his neck and pulled him down so that she could press a kiss to his temple. "You'll be next, you know. These things travel—for example, the Black Plague—"

Ron had learned to be quick, and had found that with his new relationship with Hermione came a new sort of freedom to do what he wished when he wished, so long as he was within reason and not in an overly public place. He quickly shushed her, avoiding the pending history lesson, by pressing a finger to her lips and whispering, "Love to hear it, but I'd hate to burn your soup."

As it turned out, Ron made rather lovely soup, even if it was a bit heavy on the carrots. When the soup was gone and the bowls were put in the sink, Hermione resumed her seat on the couch and Ron fell against her again, his head in her lap. She looked down at him, smiling, and thought that Fred had been right, and so had Ron, because this was a perfect moment to live in. This is what she had fought for, in so many ways.

"Thank you for the soup, Ron. It was wonderful."

"Always the tone of surprise," he said playfully. "Now get on with the story. You get to read one chapter and then it's my turn again."

Hermione dove right in, and it turned out that she read two chapters before Ron stopped her. He became quite involved, interjecting here and there about how Buttercup simply could not marry someone who was not Westley, particularly if the man she intended to marry was named "Humperdinck". Hermione reassured him that all was not said and done yet, for it was only the fourth chapter, and the man in black was about to turn up.

"What, the black man? Is it death?"

"No! The man *in* black! Honestly," she chastised, and briefly recalled their mini-bout of "midnight" versus "twilight" when she'd read from Beedle Bard.

And so Hermione read on, and even though Ron was nearing 18, he looked as enthralled as a boy much younger than he.

Hermione was a beautiful reader, after all. Pausing and bobbing and weaving with words, stressing in all the right places and sounding as though she was telling this story from memory rather than reading it. Ron pulled a blanket over himself and allowed himself to temporarily sink back into childhood, and get caught up in a story that had entranced Hermione long before she knew anything about magic.

When she came to chapter five, Ron took hold of the book and sat up, swinging his long legs over the edge of the couch. "Alright," he put his arms up to allow her to put her head in his lap, but she did not. Instead, she put his arms down and leaned her head into his shoulder, curling one arm over the top of his, and leaning against his body. "Alright," he sighed happily, leaning his head down on hers.

Ron got swept away as he read, and Hermione could not imagine going to sleep now. Each character now had their own voice, and a poorly attempted accent. " "Inconceivable!" " Ron cried in what he must have thought was an Italian accent.

" "You keep using that word!" the Spaniard said. "I don't think it means what you think it does." " He continued, this time sounding as though he were from Greece.

Hermione could not help herself, and let out a small laugh.

"What?" he asked, putting down the book and looking at her good-naturedly.

"Your accents," she managed around giggles.

"Spot on, aren't they?" he asked, releasing a laugh himself. "Should have been my profession."

"I wonder what you'll think when you come to the sword fights. With how you wave your wand around, it's a wonder that fencing was not your profession."

His eyebrows shot up beneath his bangs and he snapped the book closed. "Wow," he muttered. "Well, that's it then," he said, nudging her away and getting to his feet.

For a fraction of a heartbeat, she thought he was going home. This was over. She'd messed up things badly and Ron's pride was wounded. She had destroyed the fledgling relationship she was so rapidly falling in love with, and would now spend the rest of her days covered in cat hair and paper cuts—

But, no.

Ron was putting out a hand to help her up. "Alright, sicky," he said. "Let's see your sword fighting, then. I'll give you two points ahead since you're ill, but that's all you get." He put up his arm as if he were holding an invisible sword, and moved into a stance she was surprised he knew. His free hand was held up near his head, and had he had a wand, he may have been about to cast a spell. Without it, though, she knew that he was being playful.

"Alright," she said, letting herself go. She had no use for being overly concerned with silliness anymore. She struck a pose similar to Ron's, and they slowly circled each other for a moment. "Go on then, make your move," she challenged.

A dance of ducking, lunging, swooping and slashing ensued, and somehow or other Hermione ended up standing on the couch, finally taller than Ron for once. She struck him down with an invisible blow to the chest, and he clutched at it, staggering back for a moment, feigning a wound. As she stood there in her pajamas, giggling at their antics and feeling lighter than she had in years, she knew.

"You've got me," Ron proclaimed dramatically. "And to think you did it while you were an invalid. Let's not tell Harry about this, eh?"

"Right in the lungs, even!"

Ron, his hand still clutched to his chest, smiled warmly. "Somewhere around there, yeah. Now, get down from there before you fall." He stepped forward and put his hands out to help her, taking her by the waist and helping her hop down to the floor.

Both felt the heat rushing to their faces, and Hermione hoped that that heat in her cheeks would continue to appear until she was a little old lady in a rocking chair. Ron's hands remained for a moment and Hermione muttered a soft "thanks". Hands remaining where they were, Ron pushed her gently backwards into the couch, following fairly gracefully.

"Anytime," he replied, snatching up the book from the other side of her, then swinging back to open it up and begin reading again. "Now that we've practiced, let's see how all the other sword fighting is going."


End file.
